


Momentum More Than Emotion

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Blood, Blood As Lube, Come as Lube, F/M, Menstrual Sex, Menstruation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: She asks, he agrees.Anything's better than being alone.





	Momentum More Than Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just wake up on a Saturday, have a good chat with a friend like [verity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity), and wind up writing a whole bunch of kinky af shit for them. 
> 
> Goodness gracious, please mind the tags, and happy Canada Day, Canadians!
> 
> (Spoiler alert: I discovered that horizontal rule tags work on AO3. BAM!)

When she comes up to him, lip cocked in a mischievous smirk, he thinks she wants choreography. Maybe help with her quad flip. That’s what usually happens, when people approach Victor Nikiforov looking like they want something. Somewhere between his second and third consecutive gold people stopped asking him to hang out, stopped inviting him to friends’ parties. The podium put him too high for his rink mates’ tastes. He became apart. 

Mila skirts around the request at first, and it takes Victor most of his break to realize she’s flirting with him. He doesn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

Yakov’s office has one of the only doors in the rink that locks. Their first time happens there, after they turn the deadbolt and draw the blinds. She undresses in the dim while he pushes down his leggings and briefs, then lifts her onto the edge of Yakov’s desk. She has a condom but still fumbles getting it on to him; her fingers feel like the unpracticed beating of a baby bird’s wings. 

He doesn’t say anything. She’s young.

The height of the desk isn’t quite right; Victor has to hunch and its only after several failed tries that he realizes she’s not wet enough. His lips purse as his fingers slide between them, testing her. His eyes rest over her shoulder, staring at a stack of receipts for Yakov’s coaching payments while his hand explores. The downy fluff between Mila’s legs is neatly trimmed: tidy, but not short enough to prickle. It covers a mound that fits easily into Victor’s palm, and he cups her while his fingertips trace the teardrop hole into her body. 

His finger dips inside her, gliding easily once it gets started. He swivels it, curls it to pump on her ridged pleasure point, and then draws out some of the liquid that results. 

She’s still a touch too dry when he pushes into her, but he likes the way her nails protest on his shoulder. He wonders how they would feel against bare skin, not neutered by his team jacket. The idea anchors him while his body works on auto pilot. He knows how to do this, even if he’s out of practice. It gets easier as her body adapts; he feels the wetness coming out of her, matting his pubes, and the noise of their sex becomes more fluid than skin. 

He could orgasm, maybe, but his mind’s only half there. Her thighs clench around him and she lifts her pelvis until he’s bottoming out on every thrust. He feels the tip of his cock hit something hard inside her and she jerks but doesn’t tell him to stop. He does it twice more and then she clutches him, her whole body taut, her thighs pulsing around his hips. 

He pulls out like he came and ties off the condom.

* * *

It keeps happening.

She nods towards Yakov’s office while he’s in a 1:1 and Victor follows a minute later, or she lingers conveniently outside the bathroom waiting when he comes out. They get better at each other’s bodies. It doesn’t take as long to put on the condom. She’s wetter when they start. 

She says someone else’s name and he doesn’t comment, but she talks more after that. Victor stares at Yakov’s lamp while he listens to her complain about her boyfriend. 

She gets a new boyfriend, and complains about that one, too. 

The next time he hits that solidness inside her she tries to push him back. Her hands go from gripping his shoulders to pushing on his stomach, but he’s braced too firmly over her to budge. He hits it again and she grunts and tells him not to go so deep. 

The third time he hits it, he comes.

* * *

When she first shows up at his door he almost doesn’t let her in, but she’s angry and ranting about her boyfriend of the moment and Victor wants to feel… anything. 

There’s a liner in her panties when he pulls them down, and at first he thinks she’s on the rag, but instead he opens her legs and finds her already blossomed and fucked. The lips of her sex are puffy and firm, and that teardrop shape is wide enough he can see the deep red innards of her body. Cradled in that depression is a blob of half-opaque milky cum. 

He scoops it out of her with his finger and lifts his brow in question, rubbing it against his thumb. 

It smells like her. 

“He said he’d pull out,” Mila glares. 

She assures him it doesn’t matter, even points to the little circular container of pills peeking out of her purse. Then she asks if he wants to come inside her, too. 

He’s never used someone else’s cum for lube, but combined with her lingering wetness he sinks in without issue. She comes before he does but tells him to keep going. He watches the hair on the back of her neck shake in time to his thrusts. 

When he comes he bottoms out, shooting his first volley as deep inside her as he can. The second one he ejects when just the head is inside her, and the third he shoots on her clit, watching it turn that bead of flesh into a pearl before slurping down into her hole. 

His fingers land on either side and spread her open, looking into that red space. 

“Want to see?” 

She reaches down, groping a lip in either hand and pulling them open. There’s more cum inside of her. He smears it on her inner lips, on the edge of the hole, and then he shoves it as deep as he can into her. Her body bucks on his finger, too sensitive to handle the intrusion. 

“Go home,” he says.

* * *

They fuck in the hotel after the GPF, and he catches her after Nationals on the way to her room, wanting the same. 

“I can’t — it’s not —“ she says this after he touches her crotch through her jeans. “It’s not a good time.”

“He’s here?” 

“No, I’m…” she looks down and makes a face and it takes him a few breaths to figure it out. He’s surprised at his own reaction.

“I don’t care. Come on.”

She glares at him and plants her feet. He doesn’t even understand why it makes him so angry.

“You can’t always be the one picking when this happens,” he growls. “I need this too. We do it or we stop.” 

It looks like she’s going to hit him but instead she says “ _Fine_.”

In his room, she pushes down her pants and walks to the bed. He takes out his old red training jacket and tosses it onto the sheets. When he pulls down her panties there’s a white cotton string dangling between her lips like the tail of a cat trapped inside her. She lays on her back and he tucks the red jacket under her hips before swirling the string around his finger. 

She’s figured out he likes to look, so she reaches down and spreads herself. The string disappears into her hole, sealed between the slick red muscle. It turns red before it vanishes inside her, bright and fresh. 

The first thing he does is pull it out enough to see the bulky, full cotton plug. It’s thick and brick-colored with blood, and he pushes it in and out of her just to see what it looks like. When he finally pulls it out, he goes slowly, watching her stretch around the cotton, watching the way her inner lips stick to it and get drawn outward. 

He isn’t expecting the gush of blood that follows the plug. Its thick and clumped, some parts so dark they’re almost black. It oozes out of her once the plug’s free and starts dripping towards her asshole.

The trash can is too far way, so Victor sets the tampon down on the nightstand’s hotel-branded notepad and watches the blood stain his jacket.

It feels weird around his dick, slimy like lube only it coagulates in his pubes and on the upper inch of his dick when it’s in the open air too long. She’s more receptive inside, too, the pressure different, and when he bottoms out and hits that hardness she just moans. 

He looks over her shoulder, like he always does when he’s inside her, staring out of focus trying to do his job. He thinks he likes it when she moans. Maybe it makes the hair on the back of his neck tingle. 

She starts asking for more, all the classics: harder, deeper, more. He grips her hips for leverage and sits up on his knees, slamming into her. There’s a splatter pattern of red on the white parts of his jacket and a halo of speckling beyond, ruining the hotel sheets. 

He doesn’t care. 

She’s crying out with every slam, louder than she’s ever been. When she starts to say his name he tells her to shut up. 

He doesn’t want to be Victor right now.

He can’t tell if she’s coming, if she’s _been_ coming, but when he finally goes over the edge he holds the head of his cock right against her cervix and imagines cum gushing into her uterus. What the fuck. 

His cock is a mess when he pulls out, brown and red, sticky and flaking. More blood pours out of her, and it’s already too thick and lumpy to tell if there’s any cum mixed in. 

Mila holds Victor’s jacket against the mess while she waddles to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet and bleeding until it stops coming out. Victor leans in the doorway, watching her, and takes the tampon applicator when she pulls it from her purse. 

They never really talk, and he doesn’t say anything, just kneels in front of her and waits for her to slouch and open herself up. He pushes the pearly plastic into her, then uses his thumb to inject the cotton. 

The applicator is dotted with tiny red beads of blood when he pulls it out again, and he licks it without thinking. Mila looks away.

* * *

She starts calling them dirty fucks and no matter which boyfriend she’s with at the time she always comes to Victor when she’s bleeding. 

Sometimes they fuck at the rink, when she’s wearing a liner or napkin, and she eases her panties down just enough that Victor can get inside her. His balls sit in the bloody basin of the pad, and Mila always grimaces when she has to pull the cold thing back up against her when they’re finished, but at least it limits the mess. 

He’s heard all about her shit boyfriends so it’s no surprise when she asks, one day, after he’s left his cum in her and is fingering the glob at her entrance, “Do you think you and I could be…” 

“No.”

* * *

She’s about as distant as he is, after that, but they keep doing it. It’s familiar, if not comforting, and momentum more than emotion brings them together. It was never about emotion, anyway.

They never really agree to stop, but Mila winds up with a boyfriend she doesn’t constantly complain about, and she gestures to Yakov’s office less and less. 

Victor’s bed is empty after Worlds, save for his gold medal, and there’s nothing after that.


End file.
